


Leave

by calerine



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calerine/pseuds/calerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her marks left on his skin (and his on hers). Such radioactivity on his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://bloodconfetti.livejournal.com/28317.html?thread=84637).

First there were those nights they spent in bed. Evenings whiled away with his tongue on her skin, tracking deceitful constellations with childish glee and wonderment and the smell of smoke that hung heavy on her breath. Her pillows stank of tobacco and her nails scraped shallow hollows into his freckled back, into his shoulder bones and the curves of his stained wrists.

Her teeth, tainted with the cloying smell of sex, caught Holmes on his bottom lip when he tried to shrug out from their covers. Never reluctant to bite down, hurt him until he squirmed and stayed. She was his blind spot, is, remains his personal sharp swerve off a crooked ravine and delicious arsenic in his soup

Here they stand, after vicious push and pull. In his hospital room, he watches her shift through her skins, tread so fast he feels like fire in his veins.

“Well,” she says expectantly, like she’s asking his opinion on an outfit. An eyebrow raised and Sherlock has never loved her more than right now.

“Can’t say I’m too fond of you anymore,” Sherlock mutters. He tears his IV out and pulls his leaden legs from under the starched blankets, crosses the room and shoves Irene against the wall. Her head connects with a loud crack.

“The feeling is entirely mutual, trust me.” Her short nails dig into his flesh and Sherlock has to blink away the sudden flash behind his eyes, of sense-memories, crescent-shaped bruises dull blue-black on his pale skin. She is grinning when he kisses her, rough, his fingers tugging at her perfectly shaped curls. In retaliation, she presses her fingertips into the back of his neck, aligning them to his spine, clutching until his head drops and his breath comes in short gasps.

“Seven minutes.”

Holmes nods, undoing the knot of his pasty green hospital gown. It crumples easily in his hands, he doesn’t think of Joan nor Bell nor Gregson. Six minutes.

Irene lingers in the doorway, turning back in an uncharacteristic show of sentiment. Their eyes meet, silhouettes painted grey in shadow and he looks away first, listens for the clicking of her high heels down the linoleum corridor.

He twists his arm, and finds her marks on his skin, as if carved into his bone, her poison seeped into him. So toxic, corrosive; such radioactivity on his mind, five minutes.


End file.
